


The Mind Is Its Own Place

by ClementineStarling



Category: Deadpool (2016)
Genre: M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-02-21
Packaged: 2018-05-22 10:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/pseuds/ClementineStarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I want to touch your heart,” he says. The words sound stranger than he anticipated, almost like a confession of love. But then, given the nature of their relationship, that's perhaps not such an odd sentiment. Redefinition is, after all, the very essence of his work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mind Is Its Own Place

**Author's Note:**

> Because certain people put ideas in my head and others encourage them, and then I can't get rid of those ideas unless I write them down. Can't decide if that's more heavenly or hellish, but then: who cares about such silly distinctions anyway?

The line is almost invisible for a moment. As though the body needs time to realise it has been cut. As though it were in shock or denial. The second lies like a gasp between the pretence of wholeness and the reality of the incision. But then the crimson does well up after all, lurid and viscous, revealing a gash reaching from the collarbone over the sternum to the point just above the hollow of Wilson's stomach. Not as much blood as you'd expect, and not as much as Francis is intending to draw, but enough for whetting the appetite. He puts his thumb almost gently upon the wound, as if to seal it up again, keep the fluid from escaping its vessel. A vain attempt. It oozes out from under his finger, finds its way like water through a landscape, but it is still his picture, not a painting of chance, and his will is the brush, not gravity; he smudges the red, smears it like watercolour, downwards to where the trail of hair begins, a last tribute to symmetry. 

Wilson twitches in his bonds, too weak to struggle; the muscle relaxant Francis has given him will override even the resistance an animal can muster at the prospect of dying. He will lie still, unable to move, unable to fight whatever Francis chooses to do to him. Somehow he regrets these limitations, but all the throes and thrashing can be quite tiresome for an artist at work, at least at this stage of the process, and while torturing someone without the help of drugs is more rewarding, in this case he would not want to risk it. Wilson has proven on countless occasions that he is a specimen of extraordinary resilience. Perhaps that's why Francis is so taken with him. Apart from the fact that he is pretty of course, Francis really isn't someone who can't appreciate beauty.

“You see you are the perfect canvas,” he says, running his hand over Wilson's trembling flanks in admiration, the skin so soft and smooth as if to prove his point, and somehow Francis almost wishes he could _truly_ feel it, feel it like he used to, not just a bland, neutral pressure, but the whole spectrum of sensation, in all its flavours, warm and titillating, tingling and exciting, the scratch of fingernails, the caress of a hand, the thrill of a mouth on his flesh, how pleasure tips into pain tips into pleasure again. He misses that. Hell knows, his cock does. It's hardening every time he inflicts this array of sensations on someone, an involuntary reaction, a residue of his time as an ordinary man. It's still a weapon, a tool, but no more than that; although he still functions (to some degree), he does not experience arousal as he once did, it's become more of an intellectual experience than a feast of the senses, and oh, how he envies Wilson for the richness of stimuli that awaits him.

“There aren't many subjects in this workshop anywhere near as promising as you,” he continues, glad that this time he can speak his mind without being interrupted by Wilson's incessant babble of obscenities and insults. He has kept his word and sewn that pretty mouth shut. It will also deprive him of his screams later, but that's a price he is willing to pay for this heavenly quiet.

“To be honest, I think none of them is matching your potential. Most people are brittle, they die before they can adapt, break before I can bend them to my will. But you...” – he cups Wilson's cheek in a mockery of a lover's touch – “you are not like them. You are tenacious. Maybe not as strong as you would make yourself believe, but tough. Am I right?”

Wilson only groans his protest, unable to speak, caught in the beast-muteness of Francis' needlework. There is still defiance in him, of course there is, but it has begun to shift, to change; there is something else pressing to the surface, iridescent as oil on water, the taint of madness.

Francis watches it closely as he puts his thumb back to the wound, pushes it in, carefully, much like he would dig into an orange, past the skin, past the tissue until his fingernail grates on bone. Just there were the muscles attach to the ribs. His second thumb follows, ready to peel away the flesh.

“Just as your body is able to mutate, to remedy these damages, your brain can reprogramme itself,” he says, “make you numb, desensitised. A condition that's not without its perks, trust me.” He smiles, and he knows it must be a wolfish grimace, because his teeth feel sharp in his mouth and the skin stretches tight over his skull. There is a hollowness inside him, an unappeasable hunger, and he can't hide it anymore. “But I think, it is a shameful waste of human capacities not to feel.”

His word are emphasised by the movement of his fingers as they pull to lay open the breastbone.

Francis sees the scream winding itself through Wilson's body, locked in like the soul in its meaty prison. He would kick, if he could, lash out, but he is securely strapped down to the table, and the drugs are still working their magic. All he can do is plead and beg with his eyes, those lovely puppy dog eyes that are at the moment overflowing with the night-dark of pain. 

“You have no idea how lucky you are,” Francis whispers, and takes away his hands, lets them glide through the red slickness on Wilson's stomach. They catch on the patch of hair below, on blood-wet curls, that he tries to smooth out, an attempt of a calming, comforting touch, before his hands slide deeper. He is sure, Wilson would whimper now, a desperate little noise, he knows so very well, that is so close to a moan. These are the things that give him pleasure these days, the sounds, the anguish, his triumph over nature. He wraps his fingers around Wilson's cock, strokes. 

He vaguely remembers how delightful such a touch feels, the careful squeeze of a hand, its wicked twist, the shudders and sparks of pleasure, though memory has blurred the difference between the ache of lust and the agony of pain, all he recalls is _sensation_ , keen, acute, intolerable, and the short circuit moment it all fell away; he must be careful not to repeat the mistake, blowing the fuse is not what he's aiming for. He wants to weld the wires, melt the stimuli. He is an artist after all, a creator.

Wilson's ribcage heaves with the effort of drawing breath. It must be excruciating. It must be glorious.

“I wish you could tell me how it feels,” Francis says, his thumb rubbing vivid red circles over the pink glans of Wilson's cock while his other hand toys with the torn muscles on his chest, strokes the white glint of bone beneath the mess of tissue and blood, as if like that he could somehow reach the glistening treasures beyond. His fingers itch with desire. 

“I want to touch your heart,” he says. The words sound stranger than he anticipated, almost like a confession of love. But then, given the nature of their relationship, that's perhaps not such an odd sentiment. Redefinition is, after all, the very essence of his work.


End file.
